this is:

A life that was split. you choose when to start it. the common logic says you start today, but who knows what's the time in there. InSiDe ThAt DaRk RoOm In ThE mIdDlE oF ThE sUn*************************************************************************************************************************************************

First scene. A dia

An author sits by his typewriter, clan, clic, clac, clan, clic, tap.

* I thought you were right behind me. C’mon let’s go.
* Have you seen the light house?
* What light house?
* The really bright one.
* It’ll be dark today, that’s what the paper said.
* Does anybody else know about it?
* Only the old man. He sat outside “the hat”. When I unfolded the paper he stood up very slowly but some sound made him uneasy as if in a rush or impatient about something.
* Well, that’s the first time I hear of the old man actually rising from his seat. It looked like he had been aging on that bench for a while, now.
* Don’t get me wrong here, but I think some part of him was still, somehow, in contact with the bench –even when he stood right behind me.
* Did he talk to you?
* No, he didn’t this time. Although I can recall how the old man, once, told me that words were better uttered in the light. That they could be appreciated for what they were and not because of how luminous they themselves were.
* Well, I guess that will keep me busy.
* What?
* The words.
* What words?
* The old man’s words.
* Oh, I see them now.
* And, you like them?
* Don’t know yet. They look funny.
* That is an incorrect word to use in this occasion.
* Great, we are having an occasion. Let us forget the word, you are right. Let’s focus on the occasion.
* The occasion is like usual, kind of dark.

There you have a word I cannot see.

* What?
* Dark.
* That’s because the lighthouse won’t be working. But there’s some light still. Look. (the word light flashes before them)
* I know, I know. Thanks for doing that. I almost stumbled over that chair… And that would have been disastrous.
* Don’t mention it. You would do the same. (this last phrase is lit backstage in neon lights and goes off indicating the doubt of the man who just tripped before his partners assumption).
* I would assume.

The end.

An old man looks at the sea. He ponders where will there be a moment to spare, a light to overlook, an invisible agenda, a disproportionate amount of love that could be taken. He holds an open flask made out of glass. His hands are timidly shaking while his eyes stand so sharply focused on the ocean that the vision, his vision, is of himself. He puts down the flask, leaves it open, and places the cork on its side.

Now he is looking at himself, inside a picture where he is by the ocean looking at a picture. Nevertheless, he is not that sure of what he is seeing because the sand is blowing. Maybe his eyes are in tears.

a friend once told me a story about a young man who stood by the mountains somewhere, looking at the horizon, and cried sweet tears.

I’m by the shore now and, for the most part, there is salt.

I’m at the table now and, for the most part, there are trees, colorfully arranged, swinging outside this window.

I’m behind my pen. The vision is not of me, but of himself. Imagine you are two people and that one always walks two or three steps behind you. Imagine you are the person on the back. Now, you both turn around – so you have become the one in front.

Luckily it is the morning and the sun is rising. Luckily the sun comes out in front of your silhouette and you can see, from the back, how you stand against the light. Twilight brings confusion about, for you are not sure if that’s the sun anymore or if it’s a word. Maybe you are writing these letters. Hopefully you can read them as well.

* Be honest, you know both of us by now. Don’t forget that.

Be cool, imagine me in better ways. Think of me only if you have to, if not don’t answer.

* I’m here. Never left. Inside a hat, behind you when you walk, and the front man when you turn around. Thank you for the piano music; that was a nice touch.
* What piano? I didn’t send you any.
* What about that bee that just flew away from my notebook.
* Strange, since it was supposed to sting you. I made you allergic to them.
* Well, maybe the music made it change its mind. LOOK.
* Where?
* Can’t you see it.
* No
* It’s flying away. The paper said there’s supposed to be good weather outside the hat. A good time to pollenize, to select a different flower. A good day to try the sweet; not a day to sting.

(He starts loosing energy, to fall asleep, but his eyes are wide open. He doesn’t move anymore).

The end.

A writer sits at his kitchen table. He takes the butter knife and spreads some honey on his toast –a lot of honey. He sits staring at the coffee mug.

(A woman’s voice is heard from offstage).

* What was that dream you had tonight? I barely could sleep.



He sits staring at his coffee mug, toast in hand.

* He defies logic, my front-man. (the writer lets the toast fall from his hand, which he holds very high, and, before the toast with honey reaches the floor, the lights go out).



The end.

Another day, another hat…

comienzo

Imagine the world lasted a day only, a day and no more. It would be strange to think of what to say without having learned the language. Our hands could be used for walking and our feet could be writing lies. Foreheads would be a ridiculous topic but the subject would have no headaches. The sun becomes the most important thing out there, something that grasps you from afar but remains far away and out of reach. Then again, rehearsals would have no purpose, if only one thing could be said.

The paradigm is convenient while you try to keep silent but twilight insinuates the loss of control. A life well lived would be a life of chaos since order equates the way things are. And if it lasted two days, would you lie to me on the first one? Maybe, maybe you would.

Don't you get it? This place is too small to last for eternity and too big for just one day.

On the other side of this coin there is a face. She is on every other coin.

That chair has forgotten all about utility, it has forgotten all about comfort, it has forgotten nothing at all, it forgot it was a chair, it remembers when it was warm, it changes if the light don't show it, it brakes if the weight is ready or not, is a refugee from a third world country, it is a symbol of the deterioration of man, it is the humanization of a chair it, it is the damage in the binding link, the crack in the system that cannot be opened, it is a dark room inside the sun, it is a cigarette burning slowly and it is always a chair, it is a place that don't need to deliver invitations, it is definitely the mutation of a symbol into a rock that uses what it has forgotten, it lurks, it tries, it brainwashes people, it creates subliminal impressions within their comfort area, utility about all has forgotten that chair. PHENOMENALIA

The hat is dark inside but light enough to perceive the lack of color. One beam of light seems to shine through the stage drawing an illuminated segment between the crack in the “tela” o “telon” and the simple wooden chair.

nuevo

It is time to write. This time to say good bye again, but in a different way. There are different kinds of struggle in here, inside this hat. The one that has got me busy the most relates to the idea that she is not an idea. But here is the dilemma, there was never something there that I could call mine. Well, there was a lot to consider but nothing to take. Here my problem. If there was something that could be called mine it was the wrong idea, for she is not an idea. Paradoxically, she escaped this hat and could not be reached even after I tried so hard by telling the winds to carry my message. Maybe I did not try at all.

Today I try to forget, forgetting that is not an idea, as if it was one. Something got stuck in my head, but only after it had already seeped in through every membrane that composed me. What a ridiculous idea. He who is religious calls it faith while hoping it will become fate. I will not call it anything anymore, and try to sweat it out before it drowns me. This ocean, so immense, escapes me by the instant. That is what it all seems to be, an instant. If it was a spark it lit nothing. Fire does not get along with the water very well, but we all knew that.

Maybe this vision has taken the best of me—hopefully not. Today, I start breaking the mirrors since it is more than clear that they won't brake themselves. It is going to be the hardest thing, but if of something I'm sure is that you know where to find me. One day I'll let it be. Now, I write.

Disculpame por las molestias causadas. If I'm silent it is because I can't wait any longer, and to utter a word is too hard. What's the reason? There's no reason, only fire burning out.

Inside A Hat

The red announces the revolution that cannot wait to come. The order is built on glass from toasts and transparent agreements, laws, only before the absence of their humane condition. Because the desire in him is so strong, the writer finds it hard to give direction to this irresolute energy. At the same time he needs to fix the fire, move the wood, open the window, and breath the air. This time by the fireplace was a long trip, a place full of destinations.

The day's balance is restored, the magic dissipates in the air, with the flaming tones of his eyes that wonder. If he could only figure out how to maintain the composure the afternoon would easily turn bearable. A hot-line for boring people, where their fantasies involve reading and writing, ink and pens, there is where they invite him to think of the future. The writer becomes a character himself but cannot predict the situations that will hone his personality. What will you be doing of your life ten years from now? This question was enough material for a good time of mental masturbation. Maybe he will be holding a camera, shooting still or moving frames that reveal a little more of the world that nurtures his mind and spirit. There will also be a moment by the coffee table in the mornings where he reads the newspaper and comments on the news, maybe he'll comment on his own work -at least as fragments of his imagination. On the last page there is a little note from the obituaries that reads: “that's the end of your life”. By the window, next to the boiling pot, stands the radio that calls him a joke and plays whispering Bach's. The writer is back in time, back in front of the screen, whit his eyelids duck taped to his forehead and his hands tied to his back.

-Writer, Make me stronger! Give me a story I can play with, a path to walk. Give me the blues, also the greens. Make me a character of fiction and live our life. Forget that you've regretted me, forgive that you have forgotten yourself, write my story with your words. Then, voice my winds.

• No can do.

-Wish,vacillate, make yourself feel at home but don't stop writing. Can you find me in your dreams or am I too real, too solid and irresolute.

Where do these words come from if it isn't from your twisted head that takes no reins for his ideas. It would be stupid to think that my character has nothing to do with you personality. Even if I am a fragment of a larger story, couldn't you pick for me a better role in my own fictional life? Why am i an actor that plays all these characters, if I'm still the same spine that holds their tensions which are to be posited in a flask... The very same one that you picture hanging from my neck. What is that, a sort of punishment?

is the ulcer of my dreams

a strange confession? To want to fly by my own means and not being able, even when it is clear in my memory that I've done it before. To ask your friends to help you out in order to get frustrated by their inability to do so. That's it, I have had enough of you.

• Then, it is obvious and predictable. Thus, it is boring.

(a new night, a new page, and the story continues to be trapped in the discussion)

• I cannot go to the bathroom because it's dirt makes mine look ridiculously cute. That is the first thing that came to my mind this morning. Why? Why would i think such a stupid thing? How is it that you make me think of this, or that you allow me to question you in this way? It is clear that you want me to or else we would not be having this conversation.

Where are you today? Your voice cannot be heard and I barely feel your presence. Have you set me free in order not to hear my voice anymore? Intertwined or not, our relationship goes beyond the words you write for me. If even you character realizes how empty your words are, what's left for those who hear my excuses and recriminations. It is an empty space where I can dream with all I have. Sometimes I can see my own house, my chair, but I know they don't exist. Everything is black around here. That explains only that this world absorbs all the light, that the painters' hand took less than a minute to conceive of me in my context. You forgot to give me a story, a place I could call home. Tell me why it all looks like it comes from a dark pit, from a magician's hat that has never tasted magic.

It is only reasonable to believe in you, but it is absurd to believe you.

You draw my face and paint my gestures, then, why don't you want to reach my hand to pull me out of this vacuous ...oh writer, if there was only an island to escape to, to be lost forever. If there only were a book and a girl, or an angel in the winds, who could tell me that this life will prosper. Where did Nietzsche write that conviction was a prison? Give me freedom, something I could invite inside this hat. But before give me a door, so it could stand wide open.

Vaco... I'd like him for a ghost. Can you make him appear? (he walks around the room and finds a banner written behind a curtain where it reads: “derecho de autor”)

a gold fish? A fucking goldfish at least, he said out loud as if it was the end of a monologue he rehearsed in his head.

It is all part of a dream with grotesque proportions, with a midget and a bold woman spitting fire -or blood for what I could see-

Of all things, I beg of you, write my silence.

An Irish idea

Luck is on his side today, next to the fire where he learned to listen to his instincts, to bet it all. Today he is the lucky charm of the writers mood; a miracle drug that hopes to be kissed. You will be withering for not accepting the chances that blossomed disrespectfully and free. Such freedom insisted on its predicament and faded not to be confined. He glanced at the half written page while the cloud smiles from the window and illuminates the writer, his sun -his virgin- shines brighter to caress the grapevine's leaves.

God loves the fire and we get the comfort in the wind, with the sand in our eyes. A sunset is private, but where does the zenit-point take us? Staring into the white core and the clear becomes green, underneath the gray clouds that walk by to say hello; to smile again. He celebrates, his character is growing from his own personal desire. No chains seclude him in the dark, no bars impede his tors from absorbing the winds. His hair shivers and the scalp laughs arrogantly: free. The writer hands are so small in comparison to the head expanding, the fire claps and the logs burn with decrepit looks.

Alas, a brave new world!

A bus could be heard on its way up the sloppy street that runs meters away from the window he had opened and, confusing the echoes of the wind, the barking dogs gasped for new air as well. There are so many voices getting lost in one sentence that, at times, the writer is not sure if what he says is what he had planned to or the very words he hoped to leave out of the conversation. Like a storm that comes from the south, words seem better uttered when they come freely. Not like the slam of crap that I say, thinks the writer, which is only the result of an idea that has been ricocheting, for who knows how long, and sounds only like the echo of a rustyintention; definitely not like a word.d

Luck is on his side today, next to the fire where he learned to listen to his instincts, to bet it all. Today he is the lucky charm of the writers mood; a miracle drug that hopes to be kissed. You will be withering for not accepting the chances that blossomed disrespectfully and free. Such freedom insisted on its predicament and faded not to be confined. He glanced at the half written page while the cloud smiles from the window and illuminates the writer, his sun -his virgin- shines brighter to caress the grapevine's leaves. God loves the fire and we get the comfort in the wind, with the sand in our eyes. A sunset is private, but where does the zenit-point take us? Staring into the white core and the clear becomes green, underneath the gray clouds that walk by to say hello; to smile again. He celebrates, his character is growing from his own personal desire. No chains seclude him in the dark, no bars impede his torso from absorbing the winds. His hair shivers and the scalp laughs arrogantly: free. The writer hands are so small in comparison to the head expanding, the fire claps and the logs burn with decrepit looks.

The red announces the revolution that cannot wait to come. The order is built on glass from toasts and transparent agreements, laws, only before the absence of their humane condition. Because the desire in him is so strong, the writer finds it hard to give direction to this irresolute energy. At the same time he needs to fix the fire, move the wood,open the window, and breath the air. This time by the fireplace was a long trip, a place full of destinations.

The day's balance is restored, the magic dissipates in the air, with the flaming tones of his eyes that wonder. If he could only figure out how to maintain the composure the afternoon would easily turn bearable. A hot-line for boring people, where their fantasies involve reading and writing, ink and pens, is where they invite him to think of the future. The writer becomes a character himself but cannot predict the situations that will hone his personality. What will you be doing of your life ten years from now? This question was enough material for a good time of mental masturbation. Maybe he will be holding a camera, shooting still or moving frames that reveal a little more of the world that nurtures his mind and spirit. There will also be a moment by the coffee table in the mornings where he reads the newspaper and comments on the news, maybe he'll comment on his own work -at least as fragments of his imagination. On the last page there is a little note from the obituaries that reads: “that's the end of your life”. By the window, next to the boiling pot, stands the radio that calls him a joke and plays whispering Bach's. The writer is back in time, back in front of the screen, whit his eyelids duck taped to his forehead and his hands tied to his back.

-Writer, Make me stronger! Give me a story I can play with, a path to walk. Give me the blues, also the greens. Make me a character of fiction and live our life. Forget that you've regretted me, forgive that you have forgotten yourself, write my story with your words. Then, voice my winds.

• No can do.

what's this frenzy!

All in is the writers guess, when the chance to change luck had never appeared so sweetly. An orange is ripe, then, it is difficult to decide if one should take the time to peal it or if it will be cut in half. Hands in poker have little to do with taste although they can easily propitiate a sawer evening.

One of the characters at the table decides to go for all or nothing and gets the little bets because the other two, writer included, will not risk any chips until the first hand unravels some hope. This situation elucidates the problems and differences between hopes and expectations. The first character has little or no chance of survival in the game but hopes to recover. With that in mind he builds his expectations when the other players do not take the bate and fold immediately after he has said all in. At this point, specially when the little trick proves itself lucrative a couple of times in a row, the first character builds up his expectations. Maybe the other player plays the hands and even looses some big chunks. This is good for the writer since he sits back and lets the animals wound each other without them even noticing it. Now the first two cards look promising, this hand he bets moderately and hopes to bite a little as well. In fact he does get some profit. On the next hand, regardless of what cards he has been dealt he bets a moderate amount just to generate a big win for any of the players. That means that either he will get a nice win or one animal will bite a good piece of the other one. Expectations run high at the table since everybody seems able to win. “All in” says the first character but the writer sits back to wait as he plays small to see the first three or fold with the hope of a powerful first pair. Nothing helps when the world conspires against you, if you loose there is no turn around and you will end up betting the same bed that safeguards your hangover body until the first hours after noon. Sheets and pillows serve you well but they are of such little importance in comparison to the mattress. Where could a person literally crash if not in that small piece of heaven which pushes you up in dreams with its spirals.

All those nights awake make the writer howl to the moon as he prays to God and the Virgin, his Virgin, for the well being of those he loves. At least he speaks to someone, at least he hopes to be protected while the desire to be in some other place makes it clear that he is not omnipresent. He thinks he should be protecting the source of his inspiration, to walk next to her and be the link to earth of those mood swings. Clearly he thinks too much, there, the reason for why he is awake. Omnipotence is not part of his repertoire either, but he is alright with that. The doubt is if there is anybody or higher being who can hear him howl and listen to his prayers, for the moment there are hopes only. He hopes well, of this he is sure -but i would not bet on it.

_All in! (He yells and falls asleep).

The head is slightly tilted to the right while his back arches between the mattress and the wall behind the bed.

One morning he wakes up, ready to confront anything except his own desire for peace. What this means for him is a battle that is part of a larger war he is yet to figure out. Some of the details which have not been figured out yet need to be put together in such a way that its ensemble resembles a face, a name. So far the battles are fought by one person that is singularly dwelling beyond his own control. It is a fucking stupid day, so messed up that one would only need the swine flue to think of something worse. When the writer woke up around noon, probably some time after noon, the double quarter pounder contributed to keep him down as much as gravity prevents one from levitating unwillingly into the atmosphere.

That was the resume of one day, and now there seems to be a lot more to come. It is true that he feels like something has closed. When the doors do not open, he does not push but waits outside or inside- for there is no certainty about his stand. There is so much he would like to be doing, so many places he would rather be. Specially far away, somewhere underneath the sun to get sunburned and feel alive. The rain, which he loves and yearns at times, only comes down under a gray sky. This color is in itself a sensation that clogs the stream of life -something he considers to be the happy times. If something is closed it may simply appear to be in such state when in reality it is a cloud that can be easily trespassed. What is closed it is clogged and nothing more, now he only has to wait to regain his life so the energy gives him the power to decide on which side of the cloud he rather be. All of a sudden he regains control, walks through the cloud, kisses the sky and turns back -back to where he stopped dreaming in his sleep.

While it gives its back to the writer, the guitar lays on its side about thirty centimeters in front of him. He played some tunes that day but they came out so dry that it was better to stop. There is a magic point at which one forgets the chords and notes, where the fingers repeat the same tune incessantly and the mind submerges into the soul. Very much like making love and all the contrary from chewing limes. Its a strange place where all that lays a mile ahead can be anticipated from a point of perspective that lines up all the major shapes in front of you. It is much like having sex for the second time.

Consideration can result in the sharpest blade. Thinking about what one does it is not that different from operating a water boiler with your eyes shut, there is no surprise (nothing can be done wrong).

It is despicable to be sorry about your own regrets, to lament about the act of repentance. All in all it is nothing more than a cat inside a bag that is beaten to hear the screams without ever daring to look into his eyes. There is something diabolic about those eyes -that's the first guess the writer had. But on a second thought there is something worse about the behavior of men. This cannot be reduced into words but can be understood in practice. The writer thought of the times his actions became abominable in retrospective, and was appalled. Then, he tried to think about the thoughts that would have projected those actions even further, and was lucky to have forgotten them. But, while spinning the same bottle, he realized the horror behind having forgotten these particular reasons -which justified his actions no more than in his own personal head. As he forgets the reasons for that cruel behavior he thinks of how many other people use, or have experienced, this coping mechanism. It is probable that only those who can have forgotten all about reason. Even piety comes down to be judged when there are no explanations behind it. What, then, can a man think of mercy or even love? Are they simply a link between one moment and the other? Everything looks like a big pile of shit but its stench cannot be detected. There go the appearances -or comes the running nose.

Bitter with the choices he has made, and the people he chose, the writer finds it hard to conquer peace. It is, now, under siege. Cornered by his resolutions, the only weapon he has got at disposition is a writing machine which, ironically, had been wounded in battle and remains scared-faced. From his window he sees the bars that keep him safe, with their shadow on the white walls of brick. Although his eyes transform the light that comes from a cloudy, dirt looking, sky his hands could never touch it. Even if he tried, he could not get his torso out of the window to feel the strong winds either. On the TV the weather man announced hurricane winds for the east part of the country that is no more than a couple of hours away. When a storm comes one can savor freedom. Tonight the writer will renew the air -he's got to.

on a roof at the bus stop in the corner

It seems to be ridiculous when you think of it. Passed the trash-bin, where “God bless you” appears written in white letters on its top, the couple gets lost towards the infinite; towards the horizon of another street. Between the trees along the sidewalk a car drives from the opposite direction unveiling two silhouettes that hold hands. They are far away now. Maybe driving away in a cab because it would take too long to wait for the bus. Another possibility bares them walking, simply that, as they get lost in themselves beneath the dark blue cover pierced by cigarettes. One could even presume that the story has other proportions. That they had decided to come to this place, the bus stop, to spend their last hour together. She is flying away across Greenwich but he has to take the route south over the Ecuator. Maybe the bus stop was the roof above the benches in a baseball stadium two hours down from DC. Somebody could have been witness of that moment, even if he did not notice what was going on. They were looking at themselves in each other's eyes, what mattered if the man wanted to smoke a joint by the benches, what mattered if he was welcomed or not. What he did not know was that he did not matter. They were there only for each other and themselves, to disregard what fate brought upon them, to disrespect completely an uncertain future. A couple of shooting stars, no clocks, and a while of silence painted that night spoon-fed by an accomplice context. That night, they learned in silence not to utter excuses for the night itself became a promise to the eyes of the stars.

Back at the bus stop the prostitutes from the corner, that had been driven away minutes before the writer wrote his memories in fiction, returned from business only to step into a van with dark windows. He gets paranoid at the sight of a potential, definitely certain, thief-like character that glanced over his shoulder directly into his eyes. Following the rounds traced by the footprints of this uninvited guest, the threat disappears behind a monument. It is then when from inside a Volkswagen two mini skirts come out dancing to the tunes of a cold autumn night that made them shiver.

Two voices are heard across the plastic, and illuminated for publicities, side wall of the bus stop.

_You've got to open your head.

_I have no certainty, no security.

The bus comes, but its another bus.

_You have to let her know and make her respect that!

_It's pf my convenience to keep my mouth shut if I want to keep on cooking.

The voices get lost and decrease in volume while the light of the side of the bus stop starts to flicker intermittently, shutting down as the discussion on the opposite corner is lit up simultaneously. A couple of buses drive by but none of them is the writer's bus. Many faces defy the silence of the night, but none of them is a familiar one.

The discussion moves from the opposite corner towards the bus stop.

_When it's for you let it be for you.

Three taxis drive by.

_(the same voice is heard while the other one refutes unintelligibly) Come on Pelado, can't I tell you that?

The arguing subsides and the two characters sit behind the bus stop on a white ledge. A couple of meters right and behind the benches at the stop, the writer's eyes follow the onset of their departure. Two taxis that drive by escort them outside the reach of his glance. One could presume that story has other proportions.

Another ocean

When writing substitutes another action, the necessary movement we cannot avoid, the pen becomes the instrument that plays no music but needs to be tuned.

Luckily, somebody points out the obvious: "The writer has two hands." These, operate the most intricate missions or clap clap every time someone else proves him/herself worthy of being alive. Maybe it is because they are, merely, an extension of the human will to celebrate. Or, if not, it is valid to point out how they reach out to express gratitude whenever there is a chance.

Their mission today seems extraordinarily complicated; that is to utter those words that could not be opened. To reach across an ocean is not an easy task, but the sky will show the way as it has done it in the past. My hands cannot read this, do not worry, since it is only for your eyes.

What has not been written is needless to say. To tempt the future is to dig out the past. Nevertheless we are born every day to celebrate, to express gratitude. Some things are born adrift and find themselves when they look at the water. Those get drowned in themselves. Some people also look at the water but not that close, and they respect it. Then we have ourselves looking at the sea, for it is as far as we can see. If I could, my eyes would look straight into hers. But do not get me wrong here because I do it sometimes, even if you think she is not here.

To tempt the future, I kept a snapshot of the past one of those days my hands spoke to her in a notebook. There is nothing better than being home...

You arrived today, after an eventful year.
Probably, it is dinner time wherever the venue was. Here, it is a bit passed "mate-time" and the night is starting to show.

As I looked up, four friends revealed themselves. They seem to have arrived earlier than expected, since it was my plan to mention them but not this soon. While they stand still, what you have told me many times also earns a place in this letter.
- Go with them, we'll talk later.
Not today, not this night. If that place seemed convenient in the past, or even more, it only shows me something; pointing out the reasons for another story. What it shows has to do with the direction they point to, always the same. To think of it in more detail makes me acknowledge their privilege to be there witnessing us all. It is amazing what they are able to accomplish just by standing together. Nothings seems to be required of them because they have no names, no passports. The only way to find this place, them, is to put them together, tracing two lines that intersect with each other. Two lines that came from different points respectively and met in space projected by our imaginations.

I look up again and they do not point south anymore. They are what they are, even if their light is the memory of the strength they once had. A star could never shine so brightly if it were not because it decided to cling to that cloth ever so firmly.

It seems to be the point where the subject could be changed, but at the same time it is obvious the subject was never clear. Well, for a strange reason, Fede arrived and I will take the chance to change the topic and take a rest ( a mate).

...A moment ago I received the first message ever sent to me from Portugal. This message answered where the venue was and asked a question. It's funny to think of it since you asked me if I knew "donde vamos". Something a sailor thought to know from the masts that got lost passed the horizon. But the boats revealed a greater truth, that what comes to last forever comes uninvited even though its path lays in front of us and we do not notice it. Even though the question was about the name of a song it brings with it a lot more. As I am aware that reading between the lines means nothing more than staring at an empty page, the thought of what could be written taps me on the shoulder. Regardless of what the direction is, be it North or South, it will inevitably be forwards. In my case, like every night, it is to your encounter.

You have heard me trying to explain what it is that I feel,or how these feelings manifest. But to be completely honest, each and every time they show up, it is because of a single reason. Luckily, they are not occasional visitors and keep me company while we are away. As the previous sentence was being written , the film started rolling inside my head again. You walked down the stairs of 504 and I stood, mouth opened, in bedazzlement. This time, as my eyes were staring at the empty half of a notebook page.

Asking ourselves certain things should be forbidden at times. As you said it, it is because it's worth it. Worth what? It's like discussing how valid the kids argument is when he says he loves you all the way to the sky, and ask why not more. The answer is clear but incommensurable.

When my eyes looked up again the cross had moved through the grid in the sky. This reminds me, if we are always moving, the chances for us to see each other increase with every second that passes. Specially, because of my conviction and unrestrained desire.

All of that happened at a table the day you returned home



Tonight, I blew a ring of smoke. It was the most significant event this week. How cruel can my present be when I'm granted confidence by such an insignificant action. The real beauty of it stands behind its insignificance, as the great merit of appreciation lays behind each forehead; inside our heads. But physicians do not find the matter, the substance that turns sight or touch into experience. They can help us understand to understand, that is their merit. Nevertheless, nothing about the insignificant action of the night needs to be understood in terms of why and how it came to be. There was no understanding when, product of an insignificant action, the most significant event of the week came to take place.

The ring was slender and round. It's shape grew stronger as, in the air, the smoke turned from left to right encompassing an empty space, the air. The latter was not suffocated, was not trapped. The air did not stand alone in midst of smoke, for it had been turning round an around every minuscule spec or particle that dared to float in its sea.

A promise came from the inside; one that could have only been awaken by smoke and air. The ring came through and came to pass.

When a person has visitors, and they are as regarded, the visit lasts as time goes by. There is no need for clocks because we have the smoke ring that moved swiftly, floating right and upwards, to join the wild and untamed smoke that was never taken in. Where does my promise take me if, by its own nature, it is out of my control? Maybe I was conjured into this world by the lungs of somebody that also made a question and uttered a promise. If i remember correctly, that is how we came to be. Maybe I will come to pass, like a visitor, when the time to join the wild rest leads me to blend while disappearing.
What a destiny the ring has to bear, to turn on itself until its nothing but air, the very empty cuore he tried to embrace.

Tonight, I blew a smoke ring and said to myself: "if it lasts and it forms perfectly we have a chance". That meant the simple action became an event. With my eyes ready to witness, the lungs sent it away propelling the visitor. Playing with God or with my Guardian Angel (hoping it was the first since the second had been commended another mission), I made a claim about my destiny when determination could have been interpreted differently. Interpretation stays untouched to echo behind your forehead only. Then, I remembered how we bring our heads together when our noses touch and our eyes open too close to each other for them to distinguish between you or me. Then, I remembered when my arms surround you and bring you closer. Now, my heart beats faster when I recall the beats. Then, the rain reminded the writer of the bad weather that seemed to follow. But before the end of this paragraph we ran (well, you were on my back) passed the Greek theatre, passed the woods, passed the Gazeebo. You gave me a cigarette that night and I lit it underneath the rain. I could not blow a ring then, the night the heavens poured down on me an God made a promise. I can't end the paragraph before you read that the night in question is the night the mind was muted.

Altogether, it is only a smoke ring that lasted a few seconds but became the most significant part of the week.

Happy Birthday!

yours,

Mientras espero

If only there was a Greek Theatre near by, midnight would have been nothing but a deja-vu. When less expected, from behind a tree, it appears once again. A single wondering idea comes stumbling through a chain of thought, but she is not an idea. Tonight, the case is so, for a different reason. Maybe one could say we are speaking of the same thing, but she is not a thing.

She came stumbling, for a change, making her arrival more noticeable yet untraceable. In the meanwhile, as she found her way through me, I was still far away sitting at the steps two steps from my door.

If I only had a Greek Theatre, I could have ran by it without noticing it.

There are some nights that will stay with us for ever. Not a night like tonight though, which I wish could ran as I intend to. where? I ask myself, since this thought came as quick to the screen as it seems inadequate. But I run from no one nor anything. What is dear to me can never be touched but witnessed, it can never be held. What is dear to me cannot be written and can never be traced. Thus, it gets clearer every time she comes around that what is dear can only be found.

No thought nor thing could ever make me feel, as I puffed my cigarette, that warmth could also come from the inside. What is dear to me has no respect for anything but a daring sense of life. Tonight, she came stumbling, and I thank her for that. Her undeniable presence makes it clear that, my dear, is my life.

As for where I am running to, it cannot be described.

& you are the ocean

(sin el teclado apropiado)

Porque no se puede escribir todo y el oceano es accidentado.

Una vez mas, a las doce de la noche, salgo a fumar un cigarrillo. Por razones poco comunes, durante la forzada intermision a la pelicula que miraba me vi bajando las escaleras. Al abrir medio portal, saliendo del edificio, le agradezco a dios que me recordara tomar una bufanda y el saco negro. Asi, camino hacia la rampa para minusvalidos que esta' a unos metros de la puerta. Mientras acomodo los guantes de hilo azul pienso nuevamente acerca de la soledad. Por suerte no estoy solo ni me siento asi, aunque cada vez me convenzan mas las evidencias de un presente solitario –porque del futuro ya no quiero saber nada.

Al tiempo que me pongo los guantes tomo la caja de 'Virginia Blend' y saco un pucho. Prendo el pucho, y en algun momento de esta aliteracion una frase resuena en mi cabeza. “Do not trust the truths you have learned in the past, for they were only circumstantial”. A que viene todo esto o de donde vino? Fue lo que me pregunte a mi mismo mediante una de esas sensaciones que no necesitan palabras. Una cara aparece ininteligiblemente esfumada cuando, al desaparecer, pienso 'la que se escapo' (the one that got away). Al pitar del cigarrillo, una revelacion parece haber acelerado el meollo de pensamientos maduros y viciosos en otra dieccion.

Sabiendo que la relacion era caduca no pude ser quien hubiese querido –por segunda vez- y me perdi nuevamente. Esas son las cosas del oceano que no encuentro en los charcos. Un dia al evocarla, pense en como se debe sentir arrojar una piedra en medio del oceano. Esa misma noche me di cuenta donde estaba y que preferia. Hundirme, no estaba en la lista. Quien se jacte de haber recetado la melancolia preventiva es un ser despreciable.

Fui un cobarde por no entregarme y un miserable por no compartir las ausencias que sus ojos derrocharon. Se iba, otra vez. La quise cuando la tuve y la necesito siempre, pero ella no es una idea. Aunque, con esperanza, prefiero decir que saberlo ayuda. La idea de este oceano tan immenso abarca mas que el pensamiento. La idea es capaz de abarcar un mundo en si, uno mas alla de su imagen que termina incluyendonos. Quizas estoy tan a la deriva, lejos de mi, que hasta te encuentre un dia.

Por eso te miro tan seguido. Por eso me busco en tus ojos. No pude tirar la piedra, me tire a mi mismo. Porque a veces eso es lo que hago, me pierdo. Asi estuve por un largo tiempo –perdido. Hoy no se donde estoy porque no te veo hace dias. De mientras, me esfumo en el comfort inutil de una ilusion sincera.

Que cuando se rompan todos los espejos , al buscarte, te encuentres en mis ojos.

Y hace rato que termine el pucho. Lo peor es que no escribi acerca de lo que queria ni de las ideas que tuve, porque que al pensarte se desvanecieron.

yo que se. whispered words of wisdom...que te vaya bien.